


The Spider

by alternate_me



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-15 03:01:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1288723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alternate_me/pseuds/alternate_me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty's shot himself on the face. Sherlock Holmes's just jumped off the roof.<br/>Miles away someone knocks on a door. The door to a room where there's a man sitting near the fireplace. He awaits for news.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Spider

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this came from the end of His Last Vow, as you can guess. At first I hated all the "Miss me?" idea, but then, being such a sherlockian, I started thinking of theories. It was fun and I wanted to write one of them down. Hope you enjoy it.

There were four knocks on the door. For one moment everything remained still, and then a soft but firm voice was heard from the inside.

-Come in.

The door opened to an office, or sort of. The place had been decorated by someone with a taste for ancient furniture. The fire crisped in the fireplace and the woodened floor was warm. There was a large desk facing the door, behind it there was and old black board. Half of the room was immerged in shadows.

There were a television and a radio on a shelf. The television was on but set on mute; a classical music was coming from the radio, and it just made the ambient creepier.

A man was sitting in an armchair near the fire. He had a book and several papers around him on the ground and on a little table beside him.

-So? – the soft, calm voice came from the chair.

-It worked, but we had an unexpected development – the man who had entered said.

The man in the chair turned his face to him. It was surprisingly young, a remarkable contrast to the room. His hair was of a dark brown, his features were impassive and even pleasant, but his cold grey eyes shone in disagreement with the insurance his face could bring to the casual observer.

-Please, do come in and tell me everything.

The man got up while the other one sat in a chair in front of the man’s. He got a bottle of white wine and looked at his guest, silently questioning him. He nodded and the man poured the liquid into a glass, giving it to him. At last, he went back to his seat, with a slight expectation on his eyes.

-Please, my friend, tell it fast, cut the suspense.

His guest changed his position on the chair, uncomfortable.

-The plan went on as planned.

-So Sherlock Holmes is dead.

The guest swallowed, one could feel the anxiousness and doubt in his voice as he carried on. 

-Both of them actually.

The man looked a little surprised, but he soon smiled in a satisfied way.

-I told him there were risks, and he actually took them. I’m so proud of Jim – the eyes of the man travelled away for a moment, then he focused again - Did he kill himself?

-Yes, but how do you… - the man started to ask and then suddenly stopped, as if he had gone through it a thousand times – Never mind. Yes, with a shot on his mouth. We managed to get the body from our inner connection on the government.

-And won't Mycroft get suspicious?

-We substituted his body only after they had checked it. We will hopefully return it soon enough so there will be no complications.

-Good – the man joined his hands in a pleased expression – And Holmes?

-He jumped off the hospital’s roof.

The grey eyed man became still, there was suddenly an unpleasant silence in the room.

-Are you sure the man’s dead? – there was an uncovered disgust on his voice.

The other smiled incredulously, the fire light shone upon his fair hair.

-Why, certainly – and then he retreated himself and spoke more carefully – I mean, the man smashed his head on the ground, blood everywhere, as well as journalists. It’s going to make every paper of London.

-Fairy tales.

The guest didn’t seem to listen to that last comment.

-Our man's seen it then?

-Well, we’ve not heard from him yet, but-

The man suddenly chuckled, shaking his head slowly, as if he was watching a comedy play. The other one stopped talking, confused.

-Why are you laughing?

-Just a mental note, you know – he smiled widely at him, a perfectly ordinary and amiable smile but for his eyes – I’m just pointing out to next time – his voice increased all of a sudden to a screaming point – _do things by myself!_

The anger and danger could be felt in the air. His guest retreated once again. The man’s expression swift fast back to his normal features, he leaned forward and put a hand on his guest’s shoulder.

-It’s not your fault, Sebastian. There’s no need of being afraid – he encouraged the man – I should have known I, and no one else, had to do it. But you know – he frowned and chuckled – Jimmy was doing so well, his condition had improved a lot since I got him out of the mental institute. It’s a pity, indeed – he shook his head disconsolately, then he reclined on his chair and sighed - No sign they know about us?

-No, nothing at all. 

-Well, I suppose not everything went bad – he reflected for a moment or two – Bring me the body.

Sebastian seemed to think he had misheard something. 

-You heard well, bring the body in here. I want to see him once more – his face was suddenly dark, his eyes were opaque.

Sebastian nodded and sprang up hastily. He left the room and shouted to someone outside. In a few moments a morgue bed was brought into the room. A sheet was covering the shape of a body.

The man approached it and uncovered the face of a black haired man. The man turned his neck and a hole could be seen in the back of his head.

-So loyal – he muttered – But so insane – he turned the head again and looked deeply at him.

He passed his hand respectfully on the corpse’s face and hair, his eyes lost somewhere in the past. Then he leaned forward and kissed the dead man’s forehead.

-Good night, little brother – he whispered and then straitened his back.

Sebastian was watching the scene anxiously from the door.

-You can send him back. And make sure it’s done proper and discretely.

Sebastian nodded and pulled the bed out of the room.

-Is that all?

-Yes. Now I believe I’ll have to prepare myself for the next… eh, game – he looked down, his face was tired – no holes on the plan this time.

-You want me to leave?

-If it’s not asking too much, I’d rather you to. Thanks, Sebastian, you’ve proved yourself a valuable allied. I’m afraid I’ll have direct orders to you very soon, a part on my little performance – he smirked.

Sebastian smiled back, a little surprised and pleased.

-I’ll be glad to do it.

-I’m very satisfied. Now, leave me alone, will you? One cannot control half of London criminals, as Mr. Holmes would speak perfectly, teach math on the morning and be all chatty.

Sebastian nodded slightly and closed the door as he left.

The man sat once more and turned his head to the television as a giant headline appeared on the screen. It said “Great detective commits suicide” and on the bottom there was a smaller title saying “Actor Richard Brook has tragic end”.

He smiled. That was good. Indeed it was better than he had first considered. He was sure Sherlock was alive, he just couldn’t know how long it would take for him to come back. The longer the better, he thought. Now it was time to sit back, plan his next movements and follow Sherlock’s trail wherever it went. 

The knowledge Holmes hadn’t the faintest idea who he was or whom he had actually been dealing with pleased him a lot. It was time to use it as an advantage, and focusing on his flaws, like the man he had on a photograph before him, an invalid doctor from Afghanistan with whom Sherlock seemed to have a certain sentimental attachment. 

Indeed, it had been a very careless choice. It would eventually turn the detective’s beautiful and cold mind into a boring and predictable one. The man sighed, recording how pleased he’d been years ago when he’d found Sherlock, a man whom he had thought of having an equal mind to his, a perfect problem to be solved. Now he couldn’t be more disappointed as the equation had just been simplified. 

1970’s rock started playing on the radio. The man smiled, appreciating the song for a while. The fire made strange shadows on the walls. There were some Van Gogh’s and Munch’s hanging on it besides several diplomas on frames, most of them were local mathematics awards, and there were a few of international prestige.

The man sighed and sprang up, turning off the radio and the television. He reclined on his chair again, observing his pair of Japanese swords above the fireplace. A gift he had most appreciated. In its basis there was some writing. It said “To Professor Moriarty, a gift from the group of teachers of Cambridge”. 

He smiled once again and joined the point of his fingers, his gray eyes shining in excitement. He was in a good mood in spite of all.

It was time to go back into the shadows, and that was the part he most enjoyed.

**Author's Note:**

> Please, let me know what you think. Hope you guys have enjoyed it :)


End file.
